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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/28147464">Whumpsy Daisy</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ewebie/pseuds/Ewebie'>Ewebie</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>Guess My Race Is Run [17]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Sherlock (TV)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Canon-Typical Violence, Don't copy to another site, First of all... This is entirely Moth's fault, Greg is a bit of an idiot... but also not an idiot, M/M, Mild Hurt/Comfort, Random Anon Driver Man probably ships it too, Soft feelings, anthea ships it, mystrade</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-12-18</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-12-18</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-10 16:34:31</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Mature</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>8,635</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/28147464</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ewebie/pseuds/Ewebie</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>Greg had never considered himself a particularly accident prone sort of person. Sure he’d wound up bruised and bloodied as a kid from time to time, though most of that was from a game of footie gone wrong or a dust up with some of the other local teens. He’d broken his arm that one time climbing a tree to rescue a cat; that hadn’t been well thought out and the extra beer was likely involved. But beyond that, he’d never accidentally ended up in hospital or laid up or foolishly injured.</i>
</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Mycroft Holmes/Greg Lestrade</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>Guess My Race Is Run [17]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/series/877377</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>34</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>249</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Collections:</b></td><td>Mystrade Sickfics / Hurt-Comfort Collection</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>Whumpsy Daisy</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><ul class="associations">
      <li>For <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mottlemoth/gifts">Mottlemoth</a>.</li>



    </ul><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>This is entirely Moth’s fault. She decided Greg belongs in the river. And that he’s accident prone. And that Mycroft has to keep trying to keep him from injury. Blame Moth, the purveyor of soft injury plot bunnies. MOTH *shakes fist*</p>
<p>(Thank you to Gala for having a quick once-over, keeping my commas in check)</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>Greg had never considered himself a particularly accident prone sort of person. Sure he’d wound up bruised and bloodied as a kid from time to time, though most of that was from a game of footie gone wrong or a dust up with some of the other local teens. He’d broken his arm that one time climbing a tree to rescue a cat; that hadn’t been well thought out and the extra beer was likely involved. But beyond that, he’d never accidentally ended up in hospital or laid up or foolishly injured.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Work was, of course, a different story. He knew when he was walking a beat that it was dangerous. Public face in a public space and all that. He’d taken the odd knock, broken up a few bar brawls, taken a punch or two from someone not really keen on being arrested. He had been stabbed once. ONCE. But he was reasonably coordinated, had been athletic enough in his youth, and didn’t have a habit of taking stupid risks. He was less likely to pull a muscle than Gregson and nowhere near as gullible as Dimmock. He’d used the same compilation of assurances over the years to pacify friends and family alike.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>It was never a lie. It was the truth. Honest fact.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Until he met Sherlock Holmes.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Most of the time, he could blame Sherlock for the really bad muscle spasm in his back, the bruised and bloodied knees, that dunk in the canal, generally any time he’d been shot at, not to mention the whole ordeal up in Baskerville - that must never be mentioned on pain of being shipped off to an unknown black site. Greg tried to keep his chin up. Tried to put a positive spin on the different messes he found himself in. But frankly, it started to wear - both on his patience and his wallet. It wasn’t like he wore the posh, tailored suits that Sherlock did, but new trousers every other week wasn’t exactly cheap.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>So at the end of this investigation, standing on the curb and berating Sherlock for doing what Sherlock does, and having cost Greg the entire sleeve of his coat when it was below freezing was enough to keep his blood pressure up and his body warm enough in the subzero temperatures. Which was good, because his coat was destroyed, as was apparently his jacket and his shirt and a significant chunk of the skin on his upper arm.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>By the time he’d swatted away the third paramedic, Greg was starting to feel the cold and the sting, and nearly ready to admit that he should pop round to the Emergency Department before going home. John was clearly otherwise occupied and had frowned long enough to mutter “Tetanus booster,” at Greg before hauling Sherlock into a taxi. Now Greg was standing there, bleeding on his less than full coat, freezing his bollocks off, and feeling every bit the tit that Sherlock had accused him of being.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Thankfully, there wasn’t a shortage of taxis and the queue at the hospital was mercifully short. It was seven stitches at the end of the day. John had been right about the booster. And Greg had finished nodding through the instructions about how to keep his new scar from getting infected. The nurse had wandered off to find an extra few dressings and he was left there, miserably eyeing the destroyed half of his coat and wondering if it’d be a challenge to find a taxi home.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The nurse popped back into the cubicle to hand over the small paper bag of bandages. “Here you go, Sir. Oh, and your wife was asking to drop in? Something about a fresh shirt?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“My wife?” It didn’t feel as though the night could get much worse than it already was. But he also knew he didn’t sound at all convinced when he said to send her in, distractedly struggling to get his damaged arm into his equally shredded shirt. It wasn’t particularly going well.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Good evening, Detective Inspector.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He choked out a laugh as he gave up with the shirt. “My wife?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Anthea raised a brow. “With regrets for the demise of your coat,” she held out a garment bag.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Really?” He set it on the trolley and unzipped it.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“There’s a fresh shirt as well.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Not a whole new suit?” Greg tried to bite back the grin. Tried and failed.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I’m told that’s presumptuous.” The twitch at the corner of her mouth belied the humor.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Greg did grin. “Tell him thanks, yeah?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I have no idea what you’re talking about. Though, I’ve been assured you are responsible for dinner next time.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He let out a small huff and flicked open the bag, running his fingers over the soft wool of the coat. It felt lovely. “This is… too much.” He turned to protest further, but there was no one else in the cubicle with him any longer. He rolled his eyes. It was bad enough when the Holmeses were being overly dramatic, but sending Anthea to do the same was absurd. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The coat wasn’t the only thing in the bag; beneath it on the hanger was a soft, cotton thermal in a deep charcoal. It felt as though it’d been washed a hundred times, no sign of the stiffness that came with new clothing. He thought to check the tag, make sure it was his size, only to find there was no tag. It fit perfectly anyway. The coat was a gorgeous, deep black with near silver lining. It did have a tag, though not from any store he recognised. And it also fit like a glove. Definitely too much. And definitely required a bit more personal detail than could be considered casual and friendly. And one dinner was not going to cover it.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>With a sigh, he hung his ruined clothes on the hanger and closed them in the garment bag. He had the distinct impression that he’d probably never look for them again, leaving them forgotten in the back of his wardrobe until he remembered enough to throw them out. He draped the bag over his good arm and headed out to flag down a taxi home.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>~</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Greg had, over the years, started to develop a bit of a sense for when things were going to go horribly wrong. For starters, investigations that left him with the gut feeling that this was right up Sherlock Holmes’ street - probably going to cause trouble. Anything interesting enough for Sherlock to show up without an invitation - likely to cause trouble. Anything that John Watson steadfastly refused to become involved with - definitely going to cause trouble. And if Mycroft Holmes deigned to intervene or put his foot down - they were so far beyond trouble, it was a distant speck on the horizon.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>This time, Mycroft had phoned - </span>
  <em>
    <span>Phoned </span>
  </em>
  <span>- Greg on his day off, from some cabinet meeting he couldn’t leave, about an investigation that wasn’t even Greg’s, asking him to stop Sherlock from doing something foolish - paraphrased from a lengthy sentence that contained two nearly cuss words and allusions to World War Three. Greg had sighed and agreed to lend a hand. What other option was there?</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>In retrospect, he hoped there had been an option other than arriving to join Sherlock and John’s stakeout, only for the pair to disappear into a warehouse - a warehouse that was promptly on fire. But frankly, Mycroft had asked, Sherlock wasn’t coming out, and what was a small building fire between friends?</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The fire, it turned out, was arson. The warehouse was completely destroyed, along with whatever evidence they had inside. And Greg lost his scarf, along with a layer of skin on his left palm and the hair on the back of both hands. However, as he repeatedly explained to the paramedics, his scarf only managed to cover his right hand, and the beam that had landed on Sherlock’s leg needed </span>
  <em>
    <span>both</span>
  </em>
  <span> hands. Besides, Sherlock needed the ambulance more than he did.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>So when the emergency vehicles finally departed with Sherlock and John, and Greg was left on his own, he started for the main road in search of a taxi. The black car was only somewhat of a surprise. He was hard pressed to turn down a lift, even if it was back to the office. He couldn’t even claim reluctance when he slid into the backseat.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The driver, alone in the car with Greg, turned around with an amiable smile. “Where to?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Greg felt his brows go up. “My shout? That’s new.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Boss can’t get out of the meeting.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“And what about Mr. Holmes? He busy too?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>That one got a laugh. “I’m to leave you wherever you need.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Then I’m sad to say I’ve to go back to the Met.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“As you like.” The car pulled smoothly into traffic.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>It wasn’t a long trip, for better or worse, and by the time he was pulling open the car door, his hand was throbbing and he realised the half charred smell was coming from him. “Thanks for the lift.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Oh, don’t forget the bag.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Bag?” He ducked back into the car and spotted the neatly closed paper bag. “Right. Ta. And send my thanks to the boss.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The driver flashed a smile. “And Mr. Holmes.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Greg laughed. “Him too.” He shut the door and patted the roof once. He didn’t bother opening the bag until he was in his office, door shut, hand wrapped in tepid hand-towels. He upended the bag on his desk and let out a laugh. Three types of burn cream, two types of dressings, two rolls of gauze, a pair of insanely soft leather gloves, and a gorgeous, navy, cashmere scarf.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Of course he’d heard. There was nothing that happened in London that Mycroft wouldn’t find out about, and frankly, anything to do with his brother causing trouble or being in trouble was flagged as urgent. With a fond stroke, he tucked the new gloves and scarf into his desk drawer; his coat would need to be dry cleaned before it was allowed near anything new. He spent a good fifteen minutes putting cream and bandages on his palm, then settled in for a late night of paperwork.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>~</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Greg knew it was only a matter of time. From the frequent moments he’d narrowly avoided it and the number of times he’d stood on the banks or a bridge giving Sherlock and John a what for to the fact that the bloody river cut through the middle of the city and forced multiple crossings a day. He hadn’t realised how embarrassing it would be, or quite how horrible.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The barge was stationary. It was moored to the wharf securely and there was never a thought that it would possibly budge. Sure there was a distinctive rocking with the current, the creaks and groans of metal under strain. The rain had made the decks slick and with the wind, Greg was glad he was wearing a parka. If it hadn’t been a crime scene, he would have been glad to leave searching the cabins and holds to the constables. Instead, he was on the bridge, eyeing the body warily as one of the sergeants turned green and dashed for the rails. If only they’d waited until the barge wasn’t docked, then the coast guard could deal with the mess.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He pushed to stand and ducked out of the bridge, heading for the main deck. A quick sweep, check in with the ME and SOCO and the constables, and he could sit in his car until he felt dry and warm. The sudden burst of noise and flurry of action came from behind him, from the cabins, and from far too close. Even turning at the first clang of a metal door, he wasn’t ready. The full weight and momentum of someone at least two weight classes above his own slammed into his midsection. He was lucky not to be winded. But the small of his back hit the railing at speed and both of them tumbled overboard.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Greg thought he might have managed a shout of surprise, alarm, maybe pain, then he hit the surface with a smack and immediately tumbled once or twice in the frigid water. He might have stopped breathing, it was so cold. He did stop breathing. Only, he was underwater, so thank Christ he wasn’t breathing. It was impossible to tell if it was the current or bloke that had tackled him, but no amount of flailing or kicking seemed to get him to the surface; God, he was sinking. In a blind panic, he managed to pull free of his parka and his hand found air.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Up. Up, up, up - Now!</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He broke the surface with a gasp, choke, and loud cuss. By the time he managed to reach the bank, he was frozen enough that he couldn’t close his hands into fists. It was a horrible struggle to climb the ladder onto the wharf and once firmly on the wooden ground, he sputtered a few times before heaving up a few stomach-fulls of Thames water. At which point, he felt more comfortable on his hands and knees, shivering in the wind and rain than trying to move anywhere. Fuck he was cold. He dropped his forehead to rest on the back of his hand, coughing and gagging in turn.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Boss?!” Donovan had a phone pressed to her ear as she dashed to his side.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>A fleece blanket was thrown around his shoulders and he was vaguely aware of the hand rubbing his upper back soothingly. Rather than being comforted, he retched again.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Better out than in,” Donovan murmured, twisting up towards the road. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He could hear the sirens and risked a glance towards the buildings. Christ, he’d nearly made it down to Lime House.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Di’jya g’t’m?” Trying to speak only set off a coughing spell that devolved into another vomit. Then his teeth were clacking together as they chattered.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“We will,” she promised. When he shook his head in confusion, her expression changed into one of pure irritation. “For. You. You massive berk.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Me?” The cold was making him slow. He was pretty sure his toes were still attached. He hadn’t hit his head.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Ambulance. Hospital.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“F-f-f-fuck off.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He could actually hear Donovan roll her eyes. “I know you can’t see how blue you’ve gone. But you look like a fucking smurf. You’re not actually stupid.” She stuck up a hand and waved, a pair of paramedics heading out onto the wooden wharf. “Be nice and I’ll bring you some grapes.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He tried to laugh; it ended about as well as the talking had.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Five hours later, he was still cold; cold but no longer numb, and that seemed to make it worse. His back was aching, apparently impressively bruised from hitting the railing. His fingers felt like they were on fire, the scrape of the blanket on his feet was sparking pins and needles every time he moved, and he was still shivering. The doctor had told him that the shivering was a good sign, that the discomfort would pass, and that the cocktail of antibiotics was absolutely necessary. It wasn’t that he didn’t believe it, he just hated every minute of it. Greg was stubborn enough that he would have taken a self-discharge an hour ago, but a moment before he threw a proper tantrum over the entire thing, he realised he had no dry clothing and no working mobile. Not that he had anyone to bring him clothes anyway.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Donovan hadn’t made it in yet. It left him wondering if they’d manage to fish that wanker out of the Thames at all. He huddled down under the three layers of starched covers - and stupidly flimsy hospital gown - and resigned himself to a night of interrupted sleep and hospital smells and rubbish coffee in the morning. At least the ward was quiet enough that he was alone in the room.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Good evening.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Greg jumped. “Jesus, Mycroft.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He thought he might have seen a curl of amusement at the corners of Mycroft’s mouth. “Apologies. I assumed you heard me come in.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He huffed out a weak laugh. “No you didn’t.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“May I?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>It was a very subtle head tilt, but Greg nodded at the chair and pushed up to sitting. “Sorry I missed dinner. I would have texted but…”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“But your mobile is also a victim of the Thames?” Mycroft lifted a brow as he placed a small duffle on the foot of the bed. “Much like your lungs.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He rubbed the back of his neck, listening to the steady noise of the hospital beyond his room and trying not to notice how close the chair was to his bedside. “You know, I always thought I’d be able to blame this on Sherlock when it finally happened.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Mycroft smirked momentarily. “On balance of probability...”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“How’d you find out? Donovan didn’t send you in her place, did she?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“No.” Mycroft leaned forward, interlacing his fingers and resting his index fingers against his lips. “Sergeant Donovan is occupied with the retrieval of your would-be murderer. He drifted rather further downstream than you did.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Shit, really?” If he’d struggled out of the water around Lime House, how far did that plonk get?</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Mmn. He was a far less accomplished swimmer.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Oh.” Bugger. That was going to be a mountain of paperwork.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“When I didn’t hear from you, I am sorry to say that I sought CCTV footage.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Greg felt a weak flush bloom across his face, his cheeks growing uncomfortably warm. “Christ.” If that ever made it back to the Yard…</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Never fear, it is not from any of the readily accessible networks.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Ta.” It wasn’t much of a smile, but he was grateful nonetheless. “What’s in the bag?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Mycroft straightened and cleared his throat. “Fresh clothing. A functional mobile.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Is Anthea busy? Made you come here instead?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I assure you, Anthea is very much in my employ and not the other way around.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Alright.” He bit down on his lip to keep from grinning. “Thanks.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Do indulge me though?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Hm?” Greg furrowed his brow. It wasn’t like Mycroft to ask, generally it was more of a statement - marching orders.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Remain here overnight. Suffer the poor sleep so that the doctors are satisfied with your health. It would give me peace of mind.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Oh. Right, ok.” He didn’t know why he agreed. He’d been itching to escape. Now with a phone and clothes… “If… If you think that’s best.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I do.” Mycroft rose from the chair and opened one of the pockets of the duffle, carefully placing a container of grapes on the bedside tray. “Perhaps dinner on Thursday? If you are feeling up to it, of course.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Yeah. Please.” That actually sounded like a wonderful idea.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Sleep well, Gregory.” Mycroft patted his shoulder, his hand lingering for a moment and giving a gentle squeeze.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Greg managed to wait for Mycroft to leave, for the sound of his footfalls to retreat well down the corridor, for the sensation of warm fingers on his arm to fade. He waited for all of those things and an added breath before tugging the bag up the bed and rooting through it. The mobile was on top, charged and ready for use, his contacts loaded, the number ported. It was simultaneously horribly intrusive and terribly relieving. Bloody Holmeses. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He fired off a quick text to Donovan, demanding an update and threatening his presence in the office first thing in the morning. He only waited about ten minutes for her response - a lot of swearing and vague threats of bodily harm if he set foot in the Met before Monday. All expected and somewhat reassuring.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>That sorted, he dug back into the bag. Socks - two pairs, thick and woolly. He pulled on one of the sets and instantly felt warmer. There were two pairs of boxer briefs, his size though not necessarily his style; a soft pair of flannel pajama pants in navy tartan; a pair of jeans that were also his size and new, but wash worn, and he suspected they’d fit in an oddly perfect way; two more long sleeved, thermal tee-shirts, same as the last time he’d been in hospital, in navy and forest green; a cashmere jumper in grey; and tucked in the very bottom, shoes. He actually laughed, coughed, then laughed again. He’d not even thought about his shoes. They’d never be dry come morning.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Taking in the absolute bounty, he grinned and tugged on the clean pants and pajama bottoms. And with a bit of a struggle, he managed to get out of the hospital gown and into one of the thermals. Back under the layers of blankets, Greg finally felt warmth building along his skin. He also thought that it might be possible to sleep. And just as it occurred to him, his mobile chimed.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Rest well.</span>
  </em>
  <em>
    <span><br/>
</span>
  </em>
  <em>
    <span>-MH</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <span>~</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Greg had always thought he was a reasonably likeable bloke. People didn’t tend to wish him ill or set out to do him harm. He got on with others. He’d been told, once or twice, that he was charming when he tried. And it wasn’t that he didn’t try, he was just… normal. Trustworthy. Honest looking. People gravitated towards normal. People just… liked him.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Well, most people did.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>John Watson, on the other hand, wasn’t really normal. He was perfectly likeable when he wanted to be, but only got on with others when he chose to. He was dangerously charming. It practically oozed out of him. But it was all superficial. Greg had seen him turn it on and off in a way that would make Sherlock jealous if he ever really noticed it. And he wasn’t normal. For some reason though, John liked to pretend to be normal. And when John decided to pretend to be normal, he was a decent mate to have a few scoops with and watch the match.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Greg considered John a friend, mostly. Absent Sherlock, or when they were having a row, John was good company. He told amusing stories. Had a dark sense of humor. And even with Sherlock or when they were having a row, John was good to Greg. So on the days that John rang, or even came by with an invitation to the pub - ostensibly to watch footie, but actually to blow off steam - Greg shuffled his schedule to accommodate it. He needed the company as much as John did.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He was halfway through one of the monthly budget reports when John knocked on his door. He waved him in and sat back in his chair with a groan. “John. Haven’t seen you in a while.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The way John sat in the chair was a bit stiff in spite of his smile. “Haven’t had the chance to see the Gunners get slaughtered.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Greg blew out a breath. He was in a mood apparently. “That bad, eh?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“What?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The expression was ‘if butter wouldn’t melt,’ and John wore it when he was having violent thoughts about his flatmate. Hopefully, a pint or two at one of the less than rowdy locals would fix that. “Nothing. Let me just pack this in and we can go sit in a snook and not talk about it.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Ta. I think I’m a bit… you know.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I know.” In the five minutes it took for Greg to file his papers away, John’s mobile buzzed eight times. At least three were calls. And each time, John winced, his smile growing tighter. As Greg shrugged into his coat, it buzzed again, and John’s left eye twitched. “Just turn it off, mate.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“He’ll panic.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“He won’t. I have mine. It’s on and everything.” Greg grinned as John did as he asked. “It’ll be fine.” Greg’s phone chimed as they stepped into the elevator. One of John’s eyebrows shot up, but Greg just shook his head. “It’ll be fine.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>It chimed twice more before the lift reached the ground floor. And before they’d crossed the lobby, it was ringing. John sighed loudly as Greg gave in and answered. “Lestrade.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Hello, Gregory.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Mycroft?” He hadn’t been expecting Mycroft. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I believe I need a favor.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Alright. What can I do?” Greg shoved his free hand into his pocket, fishing for his gloves as John sped up, keeping pace just ahead of him.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“It’s to do with John Watson.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Of course it is.” John winced slightly at Greg’s tone and turned to offer an apologetic shrug. “Wha-”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The loud thud only just preceded the sound of his mobile clattering to the floor, and the entire lobby of the Met went eerily silent.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“BOLLOCKS!”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>John, to his credit, tried to cover the first snicker in a cough.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Bloody, sodding-” He stooped to collect his mobile from the ground and pointed a threatening finger at John. “Don’t you fucking start.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>It set John off into a fit of giggles.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Greg scowled at him as he prodded his cheek gingerly. John doubled over in laughter. “Some friend you are.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The sound in the lobby returned to normal as John stumbled out the door, one arm wrapped around his midsection, the other groping the railing for support, his amusement loud even outside. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Greg followed, bringing the phone back to his ear. “Sorry. You still there?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Are you quite alright, Gregory?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“M’fine.” He tongued his lip where it had caught on his teeth. “Just peachy.” In the ensuing silence, he crossed his fingers that Mycroft wasn’t actively seeking CCTV footage. “You needed something?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Mycroft hummed in suspicion. “Only that my brother seems to be in poor form. He has been texting me. Constantly.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Figured.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Would you please see Dr. Watson returned to Baker Street in one piece?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Greg rolled his eyes. “Yeah. Fine. No promises on sobriety.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Of course not.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Mycroft hung up before Greg could, so he glared at John who was busily wiping a tear from the corner of his eye and grinning. “Greg, honestly.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Not another word.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I needed a laugh like that.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Oi, what did I just say.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>John bit back another smile. “That glass is… So clean.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Greg sighed up at the sky. “Berk.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I know.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>After a moment, he shook his head and headed for the main road. “Let’s go. You are buying me a drink.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Happy to.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>There was a mischievous glint back in John’s eye, the stiffness from his shoulders having melted away. Seemed only right that he be back on form having watched Greg walk smack into an unopened door. “Had to be when Mycroft was on the phone…”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>John bit his lip and shrugged. “Could have been worse.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Yeah? How?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Could have been in front of Sherlock.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Greg groaned and John started giggling again. “God, he’ll know just by looking at me.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“He’ll know by looking at </span>
  <em>
    <span>me</span>
  </em>
  <span>, mate.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“The things I do for you,” Greg muttered.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“At least I appreciate it,” John flashed an honest smile and knocked his shoulder off of Greg’s. “You’ll feel better after a pint.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>It was true. Greg did feel better. Mostly better. The pint was good. But the accompanying ice pack, delivered by the barman with a message to ‘use it or no more pints,’ hurt his pride and brought down the swelling on his cheek in equal measure; Mycroft clearly had sourced the CCTV. John had another laughing fit. Then again, Greg had a mighty laugh when he poured John into a taxi three hours later, reminding him to turn his phone back on. The phone had nearly buzzed out of his hand with the volume of missed texts and calls.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He texted Mycroft from his own taxi, just to let him know that John was fine and so was he.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>~</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Greg wasn’t an idiot. One of the things that made him a good copper and a better detective was that he could read people. It wasn’t as if he could look at a person and know their life story; he wasn’t Sherlock Holmes or Mycroft for that matter. But he knew people. He knew gut instinct, he knew when someone was lying, he knew when someone was sad or frightened, he knew real tears from fake tears. He knew guilt as an emotion. He even thought he knew when someone was interested in him. He just… was never sure when it came to Holmeses. Sherlock had caught him out one too many times to have faith in his impressions of either of them.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He wasn’t stupid though. Holmes or not, it was more than friendly to meet for dinner or a drink on a regular basis. It was beyond the obligation of brotherly care to bring clothes to a hospital room or the emergency department, to bring a new mobile or burn cream to a crime scene. It was completely outside the realm of convenience to send your personal assistant and a car at the drop of a hat, just because an acquaintance was in a bit of a bind.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Then again, maybe it wasn’t something Mycroft actually gave second thought to. Maybe Anthea recommended it and Mycroft just never told her no. Maybe it was some sort of restitutional guilt over the number of times he’d stuck his neck out for Sherlock and thankfully none of them had died. There were a lot of maybes. Too many. Though none of the maybes were on Greg’s end. He was, for better or for worse, really, really fond of Mycroft. More than fond. He liked the man. And he thought, maybe Mycroft liked him back.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Then again, this was Mycroft Holmes. And Greg honestly could not be sure if he was reading the whole thing wrong.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The lack of clarity didn’t stop him from putting in a bit more effort on the nights he was meeting Mycroft. If he was out of work on time and they’d scheduled a late dinner, all time gods permitting, he’d go home and shower first. He’d put on one of the shirts Mycroft had given him, the jeans, the jumper; he’d never admit to it, but he’d wear the pants too if they were clean. Then he’d put on the coat, the scarf, the gloves would be in his pockets… if he was feeling particularly into it, he could even wear socks and shoes. It was… comforting. If nothing else, he knew Mycroft wouldn’t object to what he was wearing. And he knew, </span>
  <em>
    <span>knew</span>
  </em>
  <span> that Mycroft would know exactly what he’d put on.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>It was his shout this week and he’d found a quiet Greek restaurant that was only a short walk from the Diogenes. Hopefully Mycroft would be ready - Greg didn’t particularly enjoy trying to rout him from his rooms at the club. It was a bit cold to wait outside on the stoop this time of year. But the last time he’d gone in after him, there was, literally, a life or death situation going on and Greg had nearly interrupted hostage release negotiations. He definitely wasn’t setting foot inside tonight. He fired off a text; a ten minute warning, and hoped Mycroft met him outside.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Sure enough, as he rounded the corner, Mycroft was just closing the door behind himself. Perfect timing. Suspiciously impeccable timing. He’d been waiting; Greg warmed. He could pick out the moment Mycroft saw him. It wasn’t that Mycroft smiled or waved, he simply perked up. An acknowledgement in extremely subtle body language. Greg couldn’t tell if he was more pleased that he could read Mycroft so well or that Mycroft did it in the first place.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Greg drew up at the foot of the steps. “Evenin’.” He shoved his hands in his pockets, gripping the gloves there that he’d forgotten to put on.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Good evening.” Mycroft’s greeting was accompanied by what could be construed as a hint of a smile. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“You… Ready?” He bobbed his head towards the street. “Dinner awaits.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Is it…”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“It’s not far. Thought we could walk. Nice night and all.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Of course.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Greg grinned and took a moment to admit, to no one other than himself, that maybe it was ok that he liked Mycroft, even if he didn’t know how that’d be received or if the amiability was anything beyond simple camaraderie. But if he thought about it, really thought about it, how many people would Mycroft Holmes humor with a walk to a restaurant after dark?</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The road was calm and quiet as they made their way from the residential area, the odd car headlight breaking the regular halos of street lamps. It was cold enough that Greg could see his breath as they spoke. The exchange was easy, light and comfortably aimless, and the bite in the air was bringing out a rosy hue on Mycroft’s cheeks and nose. Greg kept his hands in his pockets to keep from gesticulating, but where the walkway narrowed, he couldn’t keep their shoulders from brushing. And after one particularly useless comment, he felt his chest clench as Mycroft Holmes chuckled. He shot him a sideways glance, beaming when he caught the surprised amusement on Mycroft’s face.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The pedestrian and vehicle traffic of the main street was looming, threatening the peaceful bubble of their conversation. Nothing more than an alleyway and another building and they’d be a few feet from dinner. Greg shifted, setting a gentle hand on Mycroft’s arm, guiding him closer to the buildings to let the footsteps behind them pass. Lord knew they sounded like they were in a hurry.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He twisted, aiming to get a look over his shoulder, gut instinct disliking the sensation of someone rushing up behind them. Before he’d even managed a glance, a shoulder caught him in the back, knocking him off balance and hard onto the pavement. He managed a half shout of surprise and pain, as he tore his hand free of his pocket and caught himself on his palms.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Wallet!”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He flipped over, eyes landing immediately on the only important bit of information he needed. Knife. There was a knife. And the sharp end was dangerously close to Mycroft.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Wallet! Now!”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Greg scrambled to his feet as the blade slashed at Mycroft’s middle. Mycroft stumbled backwards as Greg launched himself forwards, throwing one hand at the arm holding the knife and tackling the man into the side of the building. The knife fell, clattering to the ground noisily over the sound of Mycroft’s gasp.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Mycroft.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Myc!” Greg tried to shake himself free of the tangle of limbs, but the man pivoted, rolling them around the corner into the alley. For a second, Greg thought he had the upper hand. Then a well timed yank on his scarf left him choking. It was a vicious and sneaky move. And painfully effective.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Greg felt his shoulders collide with the brick wall as his head snapped back to follow. Ow! Ow, ow, bloody fuck, that hurt. He actually saw stars. Instinct had him dazedly gripping the arms that tried to shake him. He only let go when the fist cracked across his cheek and knocked him sideways. He almost slid down the wall. Almost. One sneaky move deserved another, and as the man spun away, intent on escaping down the alley, Greg kicked his foot out, hooking an ankle and sending the man sprawling into the bags of refuse.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>This time Greg didn’t waste a moment, shoving off the wall with a snarl. It may have been less coordinated than usual, but he pinned the man’s wrists and held him with a knee in the back until he could free his cuffs from his coat pocket. He grumbled a low and angry Right to Silence as he closed the metal rings, muttering about assaulting an officer about fucking with the Security Services and about being a downright prick. It took all of his self control to clamber back to his feet and not kick the arsehole in the ribs, opting to lean heavily against the nearest flat surface and fumble for his phone.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Greg?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Mycroft… He stopped trying to thumb the unlock as cautious fingers settled on his wrist. Mycroft was standing close enough that he actually had to tilt his head back to see his face. He blinked. That didn’t make sense; Mycroft wasn’t that much taller… Unless he was slouching? Slumping? God, he wanted his hands to stop shaking.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Are you alright?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He nodded blankly. “V’gotta call’t in.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Mycroft’s hand closed gently around his wrist as one eyebrow crept up. “Or,” he shot a vicious glare at the man still flat on the ground. “We can allow my people to handle this… situation.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>That sounded awful. But wonderful. And also terrible. Though, maybe that was the nausea and headache talking. It would likely turn out better for the thug if Donovan showed up to haul him in. It would be so much nicer for Greg to just let the whole thing disappear and never think about it again. The ethical gymnastics were making him woozy. Or was that a mild concussion? He shook his head slowly. “Are you ok?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Me?” Mycroft startled.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“He </span>
  <em>
    <span>attacked</span>
  </em>
  <span> you,” Greg bit out, pushing himself back up the wall.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“He tried.” Mycroft was trying to calm him, using his soothing tone. It made Greg frown. “I am not made of glass, Gregory. I assure you, one would have to try harder-”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“He had a knife.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“And I had you.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He couldn’t be sure what his face was doing, whether Mycroft could see the displeasure and residual fear. His eyes flashed to the two suits that appeared beyond Mycroft’s shoulder and cleared his throat. “You already called them.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Unapologetic. The flick of the corner of Mycroft’s mouth was unmerciful and remorseless. “I would have needed to call them to keep them at bay. Come.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>All of the fight had drained clear out of him. Left on the bricks and pavement; surrendered to an exhausted ache. “Fine.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Greg allowed the gesture and the lightly guiding hand that barely settled at the small of his back. But only because leaving the wall behind left him the smallest bit unsteady. He had no idea where the car materialized from, or why he so readily climbed in. He only knew that his head was pounding and everytime he closed his eyes, he saw the flash of a blade and wanted to vomit. And he absolutely knew that he didn’t want to be sick in the back of one of Mycroft’s cars.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Breathe, Gregory.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He startled at the hand between his shoulder blades, sucking in a sharp breath and regretting it instantly. Mycroft was sitting closer than he’d thought, but perfectly still and calm. As if he wasn’t affectionately touching. As if he wasn’t devastating Greg’s composure. As if he couldn’t lay waste to Greg’s entire being with an ill timed rebuff in this moment. So Greg did as he was told and tried to breathe, rested his forehead in his hands and closed his eyes and let the warmth and weight of Mycroft’s palm seep through his coat and jumper and shirt.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Here, I’ll be back in a moment.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Greg blinked again. Not in the car. He accepted the bag of frozen peas and tea towel with a furrowed brow.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“For your head,” Mycroft murmured.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Right.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Mycroft waited for him to press the improvised ice pack to the back of his skull before giving a nod and disappearing. Greg glanced around the room and tried to catch up with his surroundings. He was sitting on an overly large, horrendously comfortable sofa - the piece of furniture practically absorbing him. His coat was gone… somewhere. As was his scarf. And now that he thought about it, he didn’t actually know where he was. He could guess - the decor, the tidiness, the smell… </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He’d never been in Mycroft’s home before. He didn’t remember arriving. Christ, hopefully he hadn’t passed out in the car. He didn’t think he had. It was just the thought of some mugger getting a single lucky jab in and… and… It would have been a blink, a fraction of a second, and horribly, simplistically routine. People died in robberies all the time. And he’d been standing there with his hands in his bloody pockets, mooning like a teenager, and completely missed what was about to happen. Some copper he was. He couldn’t remember what the guy even looked like. He didn’t know. He just knew there was a knife. And it could have… Could have…</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Greg?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>If he hadn’t been as quick. If he’d gone and cracked his head on the pavement. If the guy had made it an inch further. If… </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Gregory?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He tilted his head up and out of his hands, blinking at Mycroft. “You… Um…”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Mycroft had shed his coat and scarf, his gloves and jacket; his sleeves were cuffed up to his elbows, both hands occupied with some nonsense. Somehow the waistcoat and loosened tie made him look… dressed down. Vulnerable. Greg felt his breath grow tight again. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“You’ve gone rather pale.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Greg swallowed, his throat clicking. “You… You’re ok, yeah?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Mycroft’s head tilted. “I am.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“It’s just…” He caught himself moving, dropping both hands in an aborted attempt to reach out, to touch… to… Christ, he needed to reassure himself. “He didn’t get you, did he? He was… I thought it might have nicked… I heard the sound you made, I…”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He was rambling, babbling, spitting out incomplete thoughts as they flashed too quickly into his head. The knife swishing. Mycroft gasping. The stumble. The knife.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I should have… With… If he’d…”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Whatever had been in Mycroft’s hands was gone, and Mycroft stepped quickly into the space between Greg’s knees. Then there were long fingers threading through his hair, a gentle hand on his shoulder, and the fine wool of Mycroft’s waistcoat pressed to his cheek. “Breathe, Greg.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Oh God. He closed his eyes and heaved a breath. Then another. Soaking in the warmth that seeped through fabric, belying the living skin beneath it. He only noticed the shaking in his hands when he had to hold on, palming the silky back of the tailored waistcoat, hooking his fingers into the waistband of neat trousers. And clinging. Tightly.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“In and out,” Mycroft murmured softly.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The fingers in his hair stroked soothingly. Petted. He was being petted. Calmed. The physical comfort of the touch alone was mollifying. He tried to slow his breathing, match the gentle rhythm of movement beneath his cheek. And Lord, wasn’t that a reassuring thought - Mycroft, breathing away, steady and alive.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Good. Nice and slow.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>It took far longer than he’d care to admit before he felt safe opening his eyes, easing the grip he had around Mycroft’s middle, pulling away from the cotton and wool that carried lingering hints of familiar cologne and risking a glance upwards. “Sorry, I…”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“There is no reason for you to apologise.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He shook his head automatically. “I don’t know what…” A quick denial until Mycroft halted the movement, cupping Greg’s face between his palms.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I should apologise.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Greg blinked, confused.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I, perhaps, should not have left you on your own.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Where did… It’s not… I… M’fine.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“You, most certainly, are not.” In spite of the skeptical eyebrow raise, Mycroft’s gaze remained kind, compassionately concerned. “Even were I to ignore the possibility of a concussion, you seem oblivious to the fact that you are bleeding.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He hadn’t thought… “What?” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He’d not bothered to take stock of himself, aside from keeping his hours old lunch in his stomach and not on Mycroft’s upholstery. He knew he’d hit his head. Hard. Maybe that was crossing his stressed out emotional wires. But underlying the distracting pounding of a headache, he felt the sharp sting of broken skin on his cheek, the itch of dried blood when he moved his face. Hell, his knees felt bruised, his palms were raw, and he couldn’t bring himself to look to see if he’d abraded his knuckles. Even as he ran his tongue out over his lower lip, he felt the split, the swelling. He was a mess. An absolute wreckage of a person. And he was still holding fast to Mycroft’s hips with unsteady hands.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Mycroft eased back, slipping free of Greg’s grasp. “As you were inclined to ask, I had, ill advisedly, left you here to fetch some antibacterial cream, some arnica.” He perched on the edge of the sofa, close enough that their knees pressed together and he could tend to Greg’s cheek without stretching. “I also ordered food.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Greg tried to chuckle, but it sounded hollow. He still wasn’t convinced his stomach wouldn’t rebel at any given moment. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I find that following a stressful event, I swing quite quickly from nausea to ravenous. You will likely be hungry in the near future.” Mycroft retrieved the bag of peas from the floor and wrapped it in the tea towel. “Please put that back.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He did as he was told, hanging his head and pressing the bag to the back of his skull, wincing as it unerringly found the large bump forming there. Wall - one, head - zero.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Now.” Mycroft’s hand was cupping his jaw, tilting his face up and towards him. “May I?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Greg furrowed his brow. “Huh?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>A smile softened the corners of Mycroft’s mouth and he dabbed at the cut on Greg’s cheek, cleaning it smoothly with dampened fabric.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Oh,” Greg let his eyes fall shut, trying not to flinch at the gentle attention. “Yeah. Sorry.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“You seem awfully intent on apologising this evening.” Mycroft’s free hand remained warm against his unmarred cheek as he patted the cut dry. “Why is that, do you suppose?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Because I should have suspected… Because I should have been faster… Because everything could have gone tits up and… “I should have known,” he finally mumbled.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>A cool ointment was spread over what was likely an open wound. “Should have known what, exactly? That you were walking at what can still be interpreted as early evening, on a well lit, pedestrian path, with a friend? If you knew that we would be mugged, I would deeply question your decision to walk.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I’m a cop,” Greg insisted.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“You were not on duty.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I don’t… I wouldn’t be able to pick him out of a line-up.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“And yet, I suspect you could find an exact match for the knife if asked.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Greg’s eyes shot open. “It was a double-edged, three and a half inch, OTF switchblade.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Mycroft hummed quietly and reached for something on the table, keeping his gaze focused on Greg’s cheek. The smell of arnica was oddly comforting.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“He could have hurt you.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Mycroft wiped his hand on a towel and lifted it back to Greg’s face, gently but firmly holding it between his palms. “He </span>
  <em>
    <span>did</span>
  </em>
  <span> hurt you.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Greg swallowed heavily, the weight of Mycroft’s words hanging between them. “I… I’m-”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“If the next word out of your mouth is ‘fine’ then I am going to have you sectioned in the nearest hospital.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Myc…” The light, gentle sweep of the pad of Mycroft’s thumb across the crest of his unmarked cheek sent a shiver down his spine. “I’ve... seen worse.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“As have I.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Greg felt his face fall. Even the idea of someone harming Myc…</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Over the duration of our companionship, I have been forced to watch an untold number of bodily harms come to you. Tonight, to witness in person…”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He was talking about Greg. He was… A surge of hope and panic twisted in his chest.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Gregory, I cannot abide by this. You must understand that whatever imagined injury you sought to prevent, I had to watch…”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Oh God. He closed his eyes against the expression on Mycroft’s face. He was going to start shaking all over again. “Myc…”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The thumb shifted, tracing the boundary of his lower lip and he shuddered.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“You are a body made of flesh and bone. And this body is the home of someone I deeply adore. I would like to see it whole and unharmed.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Myc…”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Please.” It was whispered against his lips. A murmured plea that struck him breathless. And if his head hadn’t already been spinning, the barely-there brush of Mycroft’s mouth along his would have done the trick.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>It wasn’t so much a kiss as a caress; there and gone before Greg could engage any further than the breathless whimper that escaped against his best intentions. He reached out, blindly grabbing whatever bit of Mycroft he could reach to pull him back. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>It didn’t take much encouragement. Mycroft’s hands had never left his face, he’d not managed to move more than an inch or two away. But Greg dragged him back anyway, nearly missing the mark and catching the corner of his mouth. There was a quick correction, the subtle pressure of Mycroft’s palm tilting him just so. And Greg groaned with the contact. It was so soft. Gentle. Tender without being timid. Then Mycroft drew Greg’s lower lip between his and sucked, and Greg’s pulse hit the roof.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He wrapped his arms around Mycroft, gathering fistfulls of shirt and waistcoat even as Mycroft eased away to catch his breath. It was a small shift, his forehead resting against Greg’s with a steady, grounding pressure.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Tell me I’m not just dreaming this.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Mycroft’s low chuckle wrapped around him, breezing against his cheek while reverberating through Myc’s back and into his hands. “I would hope, were this the product of your imagination, it would not require a mild concussion.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Greg couldn’t keep the smile from stretching across his face. “You’ve a lot of faith in my creativity.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I’ve heard you cuss. You are quite inventive.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The doorbell rang and Greg had never hated a sound as much.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Mycroft’s mouth curled. “Dinner,” he said gently. “Please put the ice back on your head. I’ll return in a moment.” The soft squeeze of a hand on the back of Greg’s neck made him shudder, but the faint brush of lips across his forehead as Mycroft stood left his chest bubbling with a chaotic joy.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Dinner. They were going to have dinner here - in Mycroft’s home. On a sofa. Just the two of them. And </span>
  <em>
    <span>holy fuck - </span>
  </em>
  <span>Mycroft had kissed him. Left him giddy. Left no doubt about where he stood with the man. Good God, that was amazing. Worth the bruises.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The grin that broke across his face when Mycroft returned was wide enough that it hurt his cheeks. He couldn’t dim it if he tried. The smile he received in return was as subtle as his was plain, but Mycroft beamed back in his own way.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“What d’ya get us?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Italian,” Mycroft carefully set plates and boxes of food and silverware on the low coffee table. “Is it alright - eating in here? I know it’s far less formal than our usual.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Don’t be ridiculous,” Greg huffed back. “This is… It’s… Lovely.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“If you say so.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>In the process of crossing to the inside of the table, the rug bunched, catching Mycroft’s foot and sending him sprawling gracelessly onto the sofa and onto Greg. He wasn’t quite ready for the impact, and while he managed to get his arms out to catch him, Greg still lost his balance and found himself knocked onto his back into the well of the couch, with most of Mycroft on his lap.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He blinked up at him in surprise. Then after a moment, he started to grin.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Not a word,” Mycroft muttered.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Greg only smiled wider.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Hush.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I didn’t say anything.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“You didn’t need to.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Greg burst out laughing. “Who’s accident prone now?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>When the scowl didn’t put a stop to his mirth, Mycroft took it upon himself to find a better way to occupy Greg’s mouth. And Greg was more than happy to be otherwise occupied for the foreseeable future.</span>
</p>
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